She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. "Come down stairs directly, and let your mother look at your wrist.
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